


A Dragon's Dream

by S_Pyo



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Lucid Dreaming, M/M, Major Character Injury, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-12
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:54:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23121319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Pyo/pseuds/S_Pyo
Summary: One dream; two different encounters.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins & Smaug, Bilbo Baggins/Smaug
Comments: 16
Kudos: 144





	A Dragon's Dream

**Author's Note:**

> No beta. Just a short story I wrote for a fandom I like that a few friends of mine enjoyed.

Dragons don't dream.

At least, none that they can ever remember. For, when one sleep could span the length of a mortal life, rousing out of the delirium of a dream traversing decades could prove fatal. Reality becomes suspect as senses aren’t to be trusted and then, more often than not, the dreamer dreams no more. This is why Dragon’s don’t dream, it’s simply more efficient to remove the in between by just not doing. 

So, when Smaug the Great and Powerful, the Final Fire Drake of the Northern Wilds, the Conqueror of Erebor and Terror Under the Lonely Mountain finally dreams, he realizes too late that he was no longer.

Reflecting on it now, with the sharpness of clarity that excruciating pain brings to a creature moments before death, Smaug supposes he should have seen it coming. Should have realized sooner that fleeing from his birth land as it tore itself apart only to quickly descended upon a thriving civilization such as the Dwarves of Erebor to claim it for his own would have exhausted his aging body. He may be a dragon; strong, ancient and pure, but he was also of pride, a thing which would never allow himself to admit that he, Smaug, had succumbed to the folly of one’s tired mind and dreamt. 

Then Smaug heard it: the disembodied movements of a creature who wore clothes and the noise of his treasure moving under their influence.

And so, when the nothing stirred him from his long slumber, Smaug was curious. His curiosity led him to not devour the nothing right away, and instead inquire of it. Oh, he had been brought to consciousness before, many times in his many years lying atop the piled fortune of a great nation, but none of those who had roused his body had roused his mind. Thus, as the years passed him by, and the stream of those doomed interruptions trickled to nothing, Smaug yielded to the monotony, the comfort, the dullness of the company he never kept and dreamt.

And when he stirred, he thought it a dream. For the creature was like nothing he had encountered before; it smelled of much but looked like nothing. The scents that clung to it, hovered around it, were not it. The strongest was the scent Smaug could recognize a league over for how saturated in it he had once been for decades before the old stone and gold had finally soaked in enough of his presence to fully dissipate whatever remained of the worthless miners and craftsmen who once called his theirs. The dragon smelled other things, men, waterlogged wood, dust, leaves, honey, earth, wool, iron, stone… Too many and yet not enough to determine what was ultimately this creature. He couldn’t assign the scents lingering around the nothing without seeing it. Smaug wasn’t sure if the scent of wool was from the creature or merely the musty cloth that laid about in hollowed out homes long abandoned around him. If the scent of men was actually it or if merely a blank scent that confirmed as much of the nothing as what Smaug knew of it.

But then there was the nothing’s voice. 

A voice with a lilt not unlike men, but with the words few outside elves would flourish, and Smaug was enthralled. This creature, of whom Smaug could only discern its sound, had a mind that brought the dragon to its peak of interest. It flattered him and dared lie to him and then riddled him and Smaug found himself wanting.

He was desperate to force his dream to realise the creature fully. Sound was not enough, Smaug wanted all of his other senses to be aware of this creature. Whatever it was to be, Smaug fervently wanted more of it: to see its form, to smell it’s miasma, touch its uniqueness, taste its out and in...

To create for him whatever it was his mind knew he wanted… Needed.

And that was what ultimately set in motion his downfall: under Smaug’s utter greatness in power and ability also lie that greatness of pride. Vanity prevented him from admitting he had succumbed to a dream, thus he had wanted to dream. 

Smaug wanted to dream of this nothing as this nothing was more interesting than anything he had encountered in decades. Not since the fall of Erebor had Smaug been so captivated by anything but himself. He realised, somewhere in his mind as he dreamt the first dream he had ever, that the lucidity of a dragon’s dream was intoxicating. Smaug finally understood why dragon’s never dreamt, because the ability to create your own world with nothing to stop you save your own imagination - of which Smaug was certain his was peerless - was akin to the power of God.

And what dragon wouldn’t want to experience… no, lose themselves in it.

Then the creature became. 

Golden curls of hair atop its head that were nothing but as enticing as the treasure he surrounded himself in, and Smaug was pleased. 

The eyes of blue no less priceless than his favourite sapphires were staring up at him with a look of awe Smaug felt fueling his core, and Smaug was delighted.

A face calm and common but with dimples and lines that denoted the creature’s life of joy, and Smaug yearned.

Simple clothing of nothing noteworthy save the elven shortsword on its waist, and Smaug was intrigued. 

Though, ultimately, It was at the sight of the creature’s feet that Smaug had thrown out any and all doubt in his rational mind about the reality of this encounter, for what creature of civility and similarness to men, elves and dwarves didn’t wear shoes? None but beasts such as he, and Smaug knew he would never have a creature of his creation use something as useless to a dragon as shoes. 

Smaug conversed with, preened under, and threatened death to the creature he had allowed itself to be called Bilbo. Ever more questions and banter and titles thrown about by the Hobbit and Smaug devoured it all. He wanted all of it, he wanted to experience everything his mind was racing to create to entertain him and when the creature ultimately decided to flee, the Dragon chased with glee. 

Not surprised, but somewhat sad, that the figment of his mind’s wile had gotten away: flitting in and out of sight around pillars of stone and piles of refined ore. Out of air and into passages that Smaug had long since mapped and grown bored, and Smaug let it slip away for he knew his mind would bring the Hobbit back to him.

Yet, when it did return, it was not alone and Smaug found the prey he truly sought, not his creation, but one of an enemy he always knew would come for futile revenge: dwarves. Chasing and breathing and tearing apart the mountain that the dwarves had intended to take from him was cathartic in a way he knew he would only satisfy in his dream. And throughout it all, he caught glimpses of his Hobbit. But when he saw the dwarves talk to his Hobbit, try to take his Hobbit, Smaug was done with the hunt, done with the figment dwarves, done with where the dream was leading to.

He would not allow his mind to let the dwarves take what had become his truest treasure: his creation; his Bilbo.

And then he was warmed by gold. Which was a curious sensation, and one he never knew he desired to experience. The feel of his gold heated by his mountain being poured over him was a wonder he found himself growing ever more excited by as he was wrapped in its searing heat. Smaug was thriving under the pleasures his dream was creating for him and it wasn’t until this moment, in all its euphoria, that he realised he had been wanting a divergence from his monotony. The monotony of what his inevitable success had brought him. 

A distraction from the dullness made perfect by his mind’s unfathomable capabilities.

A wondrous creation all his own, the pathetic remnants of a dead kingdom come to be hunted, a bath of molten gold which seeped between every crevice of his scales and the wanton destruction of things these delusional dwarves were risking their imaginary lives to reclaim.

And, at the height of his pleasure, Smaug had an epiphany.

The town of men upon the lake.

The nearest settlement to his mountain and one he had not bothered to destroy in his many multitudes of years residing. Smaug burst out from his imaginary lair, filled with a meticulously illusionary rendition of his vast hoard, and flung the concocted gold from his body in a shower of radiance none would attribute to anything less than a god. 

For that’s what Smaug was.

A god who was all-powerful; able to create his deepest desires and who was able to destroy any other’s. For they were nothing to him, nothing compared to him or his. Nothing! And when he returned from his wrought destruction he would return to his hoard, his trinkets and preciouses and his Bilbo. His treasure.

Pain.

Pain the likes of which he had never felt before, and it was maddening. Maddening in the way that he, Smaug, a conqueror of a kingdom had fallen to a man with a historical trinket shoved into a pompous monument atop a dilapidated and decrepit flotsam. 

And as he fell and fell and fell only to sink beneath the surface of a lake of ice and cold, Smaug realised his dream wasn’t.

~~*~~

No, it most certainly wasn’t.

Smaug blinked, startled, unaware but aware and confused and whirling and aching.

He was back in his mountain, beneath his treasure, alive. 

Alive?

Smaug blinked again, and shifted his great body slowly, displacing what had been settling on him over decades and as he breathed a breath sweet with metal and stone he caught it; that scent:

Honey.

As Smaug recognised it, he looked to where a shift in gold that could not have been from his movement and his mind raced. Smaug moved now, unfurling and breaching from the many glittering wonders in his hoard and lifted his great head around the pillar before him. The same pillar as in his dream, and as he rounded it, as the scent of leaf and wool and honey became more, Smaug shuddered in revelation.

Not a dream, then, a vision.

“Come, thief. Even if you escape my eyes I know you are there.” Smaug’s voice rumbled throughout the carved out mountain, and in its vastness he listened for the skittering of metals that were not his own. “Your smell, the sound of life in your breath and beat of heart. Unmistakable.” Slithering all around the pillar he had first encountered the nothing in his dream, he smelled the increasing stench and growled. “Reveal yourself to me, come out from your shadows and step into my light.” Smaug felt his belly heat, his chest burn and glow as he reared back, “Or I shall force my light upon you.” And then it became, and Smaug reeled, for the little creature of his dream was. He stared at its blue eyes, its joyous face, its golden hair, its ragged tufts of wool, its elven masterwork and its feet. Its gloriously top-hairy bootless feet. Smaug flicked his tongue, nearly overwhelmed with the desire to taste the creature his mind deemed perfect, “There you are, thief in the shadows.”

“O Smaug, the Incomparable, I am no thief, and I have not come to steal from your wealth, wealth which also has no equal.”

It’s voice, from which Smaug’s ego had enjoyed many flatteries, was more melodious and captivating than even his mind’s eye had hoped to interpret as the sensation of that voice filling his head was rapture. And Smaug was burning with an ache he hadn’t felt since the day he fell Erebor.

Desire.

Smaug encircled the pillar and the thief with his sinuous form, nestling his head just beside the tiny creature of his dream and stared at its lovely face. “No, I suppose not, as you cannot steal from that which you are part.” 

“Of which I am part?” The little creature swallowed and pressed himself further against the masterfully carved stone pillar, anything to increase whatever shrinking distance there was between them, and Smaug purred.

“Yes.” Smaug shifted his snout closer to the little golden haired dream and breathed in from his mouth, tasting the scent he was nearly dizzy with need to sample. “With hair no less luxurious than the gold beneath me, eyes no less scintillating than my most precious jewels and a face no less alluring than any masterpiece of craftsmanship selfishly preserved, you are a treasure now mine.” The little one’s eyes widened and it blinked slowly a few times before accelerating faster than the beat of its equally stressing heart.

“Now, now, little treasure, do not startle,” Smaug crooned with a vibration that seemed to cause the little dream’s heart to sputter a moment before continuing on. “There is nothing to fear as you shall know nothing of suffering now that you are mine.”

The little creature averted his gaze, dropping them to the floor as it nibbled its bottom lip. Smaug found himself wanting to do the same and was inching closer, displacing riches as he started parting his jaws and flexing his tongue-

“Why?”

Smaug recoiled his tongue, “Because I protect what’s mine.”

“No - I,” blue eyes Smaug was doubtless of their pricelessness shone back at him. “I mean, why me?” 

Because of my dream. Because you are what my limitless mind decided was what I wanted. “Because you are in awe of me.” 

The little one’s pale face began to ripen to a lush pink as it gaped, “I.. suppose I am... in awe... of your magnificence,” The little not-thief licked his lips and Smaug’s pupils narrowed at the quick dart of muscle that peeked out before hiding away just as quickly behind a timid smile, “O Smaug.” Smaug pulled back his lips, showing gleaming and wicked teeth just before splitting them apart to lavish a strong forked tongue over his treasure. He savoured the creature from bare bottomed feet to golden head with one eager lap as he then pressed his snout into his newest addition.

But then it began to gasp and choke and Smaug recoiled with enough haste that the resulting shift in air flung the small creature away from the stone pillar to land in a groaning curled heap. Smaug stared at it, lying there and felt none of his usual pleasure at the sight of a mortal in pain, only confusion and a spark of anger, “What are you doing? What’s wrong?” At the blonde one’s continued writhing, Smaug growled and slammed its massive tail into an unsuspecting pillar, “Get up!”

As the mountain rumbled under the Dragon’s lashing the Hobbit sucked in a painful breath, hardly taking in more air than a fish, and managed to flip himself onto his back to stare up at the Dragon watching him with avid interest. “Have pity on me, O Smaug the Merciful, for I fear your strength has too far surpassed my own as to have broken a rib.” The strain with which Bilbo managed to push out the words between gasps and moans had the great dragon frowning deeper with each new one spoken. Bilbo grimaced, “Or two.”

Smaug flinched, temper and temperature rose, “Are you saying I am unable to control myself?” 

“No!” A breath, “No… Not you, O Masterful Smaug. I merely lament my own weakness, my fragility, my own mortality.”

Smaug snarled at that word. Mortality. As if he would allow his most prized treasure, his one and only creation on this Middle-Earth, to suffer as a mortal would; to die. “You will not die, Bilbo,” Smaug boomed, his voice reverberating throughout every nook and secret way long forgotten. The dragon lowered a talon to the stunned Hobbit, “I promised you no suffering while you are mine. And am I not powerful? Am I not glorious? Am I not devoted to that which is?” Smaug let the claw hover beside him, letting his radiating warmth soothe the ache of his Hobbit while he dug and gathered and collected every scrap of plush fur and lush textile within reach of his prehensile tail.

Soon, a veritable mountain of comfort was piled by the prone Hobbit, and Smaug carefully arranged it into a frice thick mound of fur Bilbo would have no hope of identifying and continued to cover and surround it in equally exquisite spools of cloth and tapestries. The task took longer than one might envision, even with Smaug’s perfectionism rationalizing his meticulous attention to detail, but that was only to be expected when the dragon used only one of his front claws. Not once had Smaug moved the claw keeping Bilbo warm, as the dragon would never think to separate the tentative contact the Hobbit had made with his clammy cheek and the dragon’s fiery scales when Smaug had told him, reminded him, he was devoted to his treasure. His little golden dream.

Once it was done, Smaug reluctantly shifted away his doting claws to scoop the gold beneath Bilbo’s body so as not to jostle his injured treasure. The tinkling of falling trinkets as it strained out from between his loosely splayed fingers saw to the minimal deposit of harshly cut gems and unyielding coins as Bilbo was carefully laid to rest in the nest made for none but him. As Bilbo blinked at the Dragon, in between ragged breaths he sputtered out, “Truly you are, O Smaug the Benevolent.”

Smaug straightened his neck high, preening as he showed off a good side - for all of him was perfect and thus nothing was best - a moment before looking back down upon his wounded treasure, “You are no healer, and neither am I, for I do not yet know your Hobbit body.” Smaug moved a claw to the rim of the nest, awaiting Bilbo’s reaction, “Tell me, which among those dwarves outside is your company’s healer?” Bilbo stilled, growing nervous and Smaug grew impatient, “You dare to deny me?” And, to Smaug’s horror, Bilbo took a breath and began to lift himself up into a sitting position, gritting his teeth through the pain only to release it in a rush of air despite his best efforts. Smaug, startled, dropped his head to the gold surrounding the nest, causing a quake shifting gold and jarring a pathetic moan from the injured Hobbit. 

“Be still!! Do not exert your injured body. Tell me who among those is a healer and I shall bring them here unspoiled.” Smaug watched as his Bilbo’s expression relaxed, faltered and the dragon pressed further, “I will even allow them to return further unharmed should their treatment prove successful.” And then his treasure’s expression tightened and Smaug growled, “If they cannot heal you what good are they to the others? Would it not be helpful to reduce incompetence to cinders? It would be considered an act of kindness. Of charity!” His Hobbit looked at him, and Smaug’s crown of horns flared out as nothing was said, “You yourself said I was benevolent, was that a lie? Did you lie to me?”

Smaug saw it then, that flare of fear burn bright behind his treasure’s gleaming eyes and yet he felt no remorse for causing it this round as he would not allow his golden dream to dissipate so pathetically as from a wound inflicted by negligence. The precious treasure licked his dry lips, “Oin, though he is not truly a healer as great as those of elves who know Hobbits, he has seen to my injuries along our journey here enough times to know what works,” his golden curls slowly lowered and stuck to his increasingly sweaty head, “and what worsens.”

The dragon shifted more gold from around the personal nest to better fortify its shape before rising and moving away toward the upper hallway Bilbo had come through. Though it was secret, one that Smaug hated to admit he suspected but knew nothing about, the scent of his treasure was easy to trace for it spoke to the dragon in a way nothing else could. Smaug braced himself atop the stairs leading from his hoard to the hallway entrance but ended up only able to poke his muzzle into it to call for this “Oin.”

“Dwarves, I know you are there; I know you can hear me. Bring forward the one known as Oin.” The great dragon bellowed up through the stony passage. He was not sure how far back the tunnel went, as he could not separate the sweetness of his Bilbo from whatever plainness was outside, but he knew his voice could echo for miles if he bothered.

For someone as ageless as he, Smaug found the passage of time between his demands and the arrival of a tight-knit band of dwarves excruciating. He smelled them long before seeing them, and as their scent permeated the stony secret-way, Smaug removed his mouth from the entrance and perched himself regally atop the descending stone staircase as he watched the company of dwarves appear from around the corner.

His slitted eyes narrowed, “I distinctly recall only seeking the one known as Oin, not the thirteen.” Smaug watched as twelve sets of eyes shifted toward the dark-haired dwarf in front of their group and the dragon focused his senses on him as the dwarf took a confident step forward. Ah, royal blood.

“I am Thorin-”

“Yes yes yes, I know your blood.” Smaug hissed, “But I did not call for an usurper; I called for a healer.” His tail flicked as it rose to curl up beside the upper level of stairs and hover near the huddling group as Smaug dismissed Thorin by shifting his gaze, “Which of you is Oin?”

An older Dwarf with an elaborately braided beard and hair grey with wisdom, took a step away from the others, but before the breath he took could be used Thorin stepped forward again and spoke, “You will deal with me, dragon.”

Smaug swung his head toward the would-be-king and felt an all-too-familiar heat begin to pool in his chest, its suddenness causing all the dwarves to flinch, “I remember conceding to the safety of an Oin; however, I do not recall anything agreed upon concerning others.” Smaug showed off his best smile, “It could be argued that they would be so unnecessary as to be considered expendable.”

Thorin, finding some courage under the guise of king-hopeful, rolled his shoulders and straightened to meet the dragon, “We will not treat you unless-”

Smaug growled, vibrating so fiercely the sensation traveled through the solid bedrock of the stairs to reach the dwarven feet at its top, “Do not flatter yourself, Prince Without. What could creatures not above the beasts I trod do to tend to whatever may befall an immortal such as myself?” Smaug exhaled a plume of rancid smoke as his internal furnace subsided, “No, it is not for me that I seek Oin, healer of yours, but for Bilbo.”

“Bilbo?!” The aged dwarf barked out in concern too quick for Thorin to silence.

Thorin held an arm out to keep Oin from continuing, but never tore his glare from the Dragon looming over them, “Our aid does not come without compensation.”

“Compensation?” Smaug blinked, “Compensation!” The dragon recoiled in laughter before whipping his maw back to mere inches from their huddled mass, “Have the dwarven people fallen so far without the sturdiness of a mountain to cling? Have a race once honourable and proud now know only of selfishness and greed and forgo the needs of their people?”

Thorin clenched his jaw, muscles pulsing beneath his beard, forcing the words out in a low rumble, “Bilbo is a Hobbit.”

“Ah,” Smaug narrowed his eyes and eased his long neck back as the word turned into a sigh. “Yes, of course. A Hobbit. Not a Dwarf; not your people.” Smaug dropped his claws from the stairs and stood proud and tall as he looked down at them, “Heal Bilbo, and you may take however much treasure you can carry.” He turned his head away, his body twisting to follow its lead when Thorin barked out his true demand.

“I want the Arkenstone!”

Smaug paused, tilting only half his head back around to see the mad gleam in the would-be-king’s eyes. “As was agreed: whatever treasure you can carry is yours to keep should Bilbo recover.” 

Not waiting for the short ones to catch up, knowing they will manage to make their way if they want to stay alive, Smaug strode toward the nest that held his injured treasure with all the haste one could make across malleable ground while achieving minimal influence over the surface. As he came upon the pillar and peered over the crest of the mound of comfort, Smaug saw Bilbo’s quaking form and felt pain in his chest not unlike the impact of the black arrow in his vision. The great dragon prowled once around the pillar and nest before settling down to surround them both in a protective circle of warmth and soothing purrs. 

Bilbo, hearing the dragon finally lay down, squinted his eyes open amidst the contortion of pain on his face, “There you are, O Smaug the Fiery.”

Smaug’s chuckle rumbled across the gold underneath them, “Did you miss me, my precious treasure?”

Bilbo tried to force his features to slowly relax, though the slick sheen of sweat showed no signs of evaporating, “It was quite cold while you were gone.”

“Hmm,” Smaug murmured while his underside began to glow brighter and warm with churning heat, “What kind of Fire Drake am I if I am unable to keep my own warm?” As the warmth began to envelope him, Bilbo moaned in relief even as he tried to giggle at the Dragon’s words. Barely a few chortles were expelled before a painful sob escaped his lips. “Hush, little one, do not placate me. The dwarves have agreed to tend to you; you will be well soon.” Even as he said this, Smaug realised he couldn’t honestly claim that was for solely Bilbo’s peace of mind.

Bilbo stilled at his words, face slackened even under the immense pain he had been expressing seconds before, and widened his eyes as he looked at Smaug’s own. “Agreed?” The Hobbit’s words were barely a whisper, “You had to convince them?”

Smaug shouldn’t have enjoyed his Bilbo’s revelation, for the pain it wrung from his face left a welt upon the dragon’s heart, but he also knew he would never get a better chance to make Bilbo choose to remove himself from their band. Make him willingly isolate himself from everything and anyone that wasn’t him. Smaug pressed down on the side of the nest as he rose the end of his great tail so Bilbo could have an unobstructed view of the vast cavern without having to move his painful body and of the dwarves that scrabbled and dug and scoured among the piled riches.

Bilbo stared at them as intently as Smaug stared at him. “What did you offer them?”

“The Arkenstone.” And Smaug watched as the word slipped into Bilbo’s ears, entered his mind, and understood.

Bilbo nodded and nodded and nodded and Smaug thought the little one might scramble his brain if he didn't quit so he reformed the nest and lowered his tail to keep his precious treasure from seeing what he was truly worth to those whom he had probably thought comrades… friends.

As the Hobbit’s trembling subsided, he found his voice, “I am worth no more than a pretty stone.”

Smaug’s wings rustled, causing a great leathery noise as one of them fanned out over the nest and enclose the heat from his draconic furnace, “I offered them anything of mine for your treatment.” Smaug brought his mouth to the edge of the nest, breathing a dry heat onto the little Hobbit as he lowered his voice and whispered. “It was Thorin who demanded I give him the stone before he agreed.”

Bilbo’s breath caught; a great intake before he realised it would hurt him and forced it out again in a rushing sob as tears welled, “You… lie.”

Smaug didn’t even blink at the insult for he couldn’t have been more pleased. For it meant his little golden dream was so wrecked, so emotionally distraught at the potential truth of Smaug’s words that he had renounced his own self-preservation in order to slander the Last Great Dragon. The Hobbit was willing to die, yearning to cease to be, rather than face the reality of how little the creatures he had fought and risked for truly valued him. Bilbo was close to breaking and Smaug knew, with just one more push, he could.

And so he did.

“Thirteen of them to search for a single stone among mountains of metal and yet not one of them have even come to see how much you are hurting, Bilbo.”

The tears finally came. After struggling to keep them from falling, forcing his eyes to cease blinking, Bilbo’s whole body collapsed into wretched sobs as he covered his face and wept. 

And now that Bilbo was broken Smaug could put him back together. “Shh, hush, now, my treasured one, I shall go and help find them the Arkenstone so they will heal you.” Smaug began to shift, uncoiling himself to rise but the strangled cry from the whimpering center of the nest of cloth a fur stopped him.

“No! No, please,” Bilbo tore his hands from his face and tried to pull himself to the edge of the nest while reaching out toward the great red dragon, “Don’t leave me, please. Smaug, please. Don’t leave.”

Smaug had to force still the grin that threatened to split apart his face as he watched Bilbo beg. Watched as what Smaug had already known and demanded be seared upon the soul of the small creature pitiful and broken before him. 

Bilbo was his.

Smaug knew there was nothing more he needed to do, the Hobbit had willingly and eagerly accepted his fate as Smaug’s, but he also knew there was not going to be a better opportunity to set the foundation for the rest of the mortal’s life than now while he was still as fresh and vulnerable as a birthed fawn. For, although the Hobbit was Smaug’s he wasn’t like Smaug, and most definitely wouldn’t like Smaug’s penchant for wickedness and ruthlessness.

No, his little treasure was as kind as Smaug was not. 

But he was also loyal. Loyal in so far as to throw away his own life to name-call a dragon for claiming that his friends had betrayed him. And, oh, how Smaug ached for that devotion to be his.

And he would have it. He would have all of him; all of Bilbo. Smaug would own and demand all that Bilbo had to give, and then he would take more. Take what Bilbo didn’t know he could give, didn’t think he could part with and still exist; still continue to be himself. But he wouldn’t, no, he would cease being his own because he would be Smaug’s.

Bilbo would praise Smaug as his salvation; would worship Smaug as his God.

And Smaug would be Bilbo’s God, for Bilbo was His creation and Smaug loved him.

Smaug lowered himself back into an impregnable barricade of scales and heat as he gave in to Bilbo’s pleas. He said nothing as he flattened half of the nest with the weight of his head; only watching as Bilbo turned into his chin. Felt Bilbo’s hands stroking him. Heard Bilbo’s adoring gratitude whispered from lips a breath from his scales.

“I will never leave you, my treasure, for you are mine.” Smaug’s voice deep.

“I am yours.” Bilbo’s a whisper.

“And I am yours.” At Smaug’s own hushed words he felt the small body pressed against his still; felt Bilbo’s breath pause.

And then the small hands that had stopped, clutched as a clammy head ground against his crimson scales, “And you are mine.”

Smaug knew he was cruel, but even he sometimes found himself in awe of what ways he was.

Here lay, curled in upon himself, the potentially mortally wounded creature for whom he had decided to become God and Smaug found himself slow to hurry the dwarves, who continued to search for a stone without power or worth outside the potency of its infliction, into curing his ailing Hobbit. Why?

Because Smaug was cruel. Cruel to those he hated, and to the one he loved. 

But weren’t Gods like that? Were they not also letting their devoted suffer and pain so that when the good things come they are miracles? Miracles could only be performed by God. Thus, when his little treasure was inevitably made well, the dwarves would not be the ones to receive Bilbo’s thanks, no, he would spurn the dwarves himself! Hate them for using him to enter the Dragon's Lair alone to fetch a worthless stone. Hate them for using him, lying to him, fooling him. And, then, after the hate was vomited from Bilbo’s mouth to seep to their cores, Bilbo would turn to Smaug and love him.

It would be Smaug upon whom the Hobbit would cherish and lavish with all the love he could imagine to give, and in that final moment of surrender… of helplessness, Smaug would take from him everything.

Nothing would be left of Bilbo except Smaug.

His Creator.

His God.


End file.
